Eli, twelve, held baby Ruth with a stiffness no boy his age should carry. Sam, ten, scanned the crowd with restless anger, fists twitching. Luke, nine, clung quietly, jaw trembling despite his effort to appear brave. Anna, seven, murmured half-remembered psalms beneath her breath. Josie, five, hid her face in Angelina’s dress. Ruth, barely two, whimpered faintly, unaware of the spectacle unfolding around them.
Near the fence, leaning with satisfaction, stood Virgil Whitlock—Angelina’s brother-in-law. Beside him, his wife Netti folded her arms, lips curled in disdain. They had long called Angelina proud and difficult. When her husband died of fever the previous winter, they wasted little time in pushing her and the children from the family land. Then, realizing they might profit, they dragged her back to town.
The auctioneer’s voice rang out, coarse and impatient. Bids began low—insultingly low. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Men assessed the children like livestock. Some considered labor value. Others scoffed at the number of mouths to feed.
